Page 4 of Impossible
“Nowhere. I’d like you to get her to leave.”
“I feel certain you’ll be able to do that without my assistance,” she said with a touch of heat, which she hadn’t done with him in some time.
Chewing a bite of toast, he slid her a glower.
She glared right back at him. “Meet her in the library. With your ledgers. She’s here to help, and you need it.”
He growled before taking another bite of toast, masticating it as if it were meat instead of bread, and that he was the beast everyone described him to be.
Because he was.
Mrs. Bundle put her hands on her hips and fixed him with maternal disdain. It was one of the few things that could still provoke discomfort—the kind he felt when he knew he ought to do better and thought, perhaps, that he should.
“We can’t keep on as we are.” She glanced toward the window that looked out to the overgrown gardens. “Stonehill requires a much larger staff to care for the house, let alone the grounds. Your tenants need support, or they’ll move on. Are you truly content to allow Stonehill to fall into disrepair?”
Max shrugged. “What do I care? I don’t plan to wed or have children, and I am not aware of any heirs to the title. Does it really matter what happens to the estate?”
The housekeeper’s brown eyes sparked with anger. “Only to the tenants. One of these days, you’re going to drive me to leave. And Timothy will come with me. Where will you be then?”
He speared a whole kipper on his fork and fixed her with a dark stare. “I’ll be right here, surveying the view of my dilapidated gardens.” Stuffing the fish into his mouth, he champed it harshly, grinding his teeth in the process.
She gave a disgusted snort. “And who will bring your breakfast?”
“One of the scullery maids.”
“There isonlyone, and she’s only here in the afternoons. You could ask Mrs. Debley, I suppose, but she’s worked to the bone, not that she would say so or that you would care. What’s worse is that she’ll do it until she’s in her grave. Anything for her ‘dearest boy.’” Mrs. Bundle rolled her eyes.
Max suffered a moment’s self-recrimination. Mrs. Debley had been the cook at Stonehill since before he was born. She and Og in the stables were the only retainers left who had known him as a boy. She’d also known his father, his brother, and, of course, his beloved mother. If she—or Og—left, he might truly break.
If he wasn’t already broken.
He pulled himself back to the situation at hand—his aggrieved housekeeper. “If you want to leave, you should.”
“Who will be here to clean up after you and ensure you don’t waste away?”
Max shrugged again. “Perhaps I want to. Waste away, that is.”
She groaned, her frustration palpable. “Please go to the library to meet Miss Treadway when you’re finished. She’s quite charming and seems capable. Just give her what she needs and stay out of her way. Perhaps she can set things right.” Mrs. Bundle turned, her shoulders sagging as she retreated from the study.
Another pang of self-loathing dashed through him. Mrs. Bundleshouldleave—she’d be better off. No one could set things right, not his hardworking housekeeper, and certainly not some meddlesome chit from Lucien’s silly London club.
Lowering his gaze to his plate, Max pushed the food around. As usual, he’d started his meal with gusto only to lose his appetite rather quickly. It was too bad, for Mrs. Debley was an exceptionally fine cook. Even with a dearth of help in the kitchen.
He set his utensils down and reached for the coffee, taking too much into his mouth and scalding his tongue. Swallowing, he set the cup back down with a muttered curse.
Things were fine as they were. Mrs. Debley clearly didn’t need help in the kitchen, and Mrs. Bundle was managing things just fine. She was only provoking him because she wasworried. How he loathed that word. If he never heard it again the rest of his life, it would be too soon. Everyone had been nothingbutworried since he’d returned from Spain.
There was nothing to worry about. The estate wasn’t in shambles, and the tenants wouldn’t leave because he didn’t raise the rent. Indeed, perhaps he’d lower their rent to compensate for his poor management. Yes, that was a capital idea. Then Mrs. Bundle could stop worrying about that at least.
Pushing the tray away, he leaned back in his chair and looked at the portrait hanging over the mantel. His mother’s loving smile didn’t ease his pain, but it quieted the noise, at least for a few moments.
How had it been nearly twenty years since her passing? He could still feel her comforting embrace, smell her rose-and-peony soap, hear her warm laugh. But recalling things had never been his problem. In fact, memories were what kept him immersed in suffering.
And that was precisely what he deserved.
Fuck it.
He abruptly stood, sweeping up his coffee cup so it nearly sloshed over the rim. Just what he needed, a burn on his hand to go with the one on his tongue. What was one more wound?
